


Encoil

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Denial, Gen, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, no comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 17:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20100580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jon needs to focus.





	Encoil

Jon used to worry when he did this. Mostly, he’d worried Georgie would find out, which would mean she’d read him the whole riot act about how dangerous it was, how she was concerned about his health, how he needed to talk to somebody - anybody - even if it wasn’t her.

He’d assured her it was fine. It wasn’t conventional by any means, but it was  _ fine _ . He knew the risks, and it wasn’t some “awful coping mechanism,” as she had put it. Anything to get her to stop looking at him like that. He couldn’t stand seeing her like that. Not for his own conscience, but he wouldn’t stand seeing her so… sad.

Georgie would eventually cool down and go off into another room, or go to class, or wherever she needed to be. She was always so active, bouncing around from place to place.

He sighs. She’s not here to lecture him anymore. And it’s different now. Because of  _ whatever it was _ that he’s becoming. Most of the time, she caught him because of the scars. There won’t be any scars anymore, as he’s found out. Everyone else can cut up the Archivist except himself.

Jon sits against the wall beside his desk. He hasn’t even put away the last statement yet, the tape recorder still laying beside it. It’s off for now, but whether that’ll spontaneously change is something he knows he cannot do anything about. He’ll deal with all that later. He- he needs this right now.

His shirt hangs on the back of his chair, even though he’s sure no one in the archives would bat an eye to see it stained. That’s how life is, here in the archives. You come out with random burns, your face a little twisted, a few dozen worm punctures, everyone just thinks it’s another day on the job.

That miserable little thought catches on Jon’s mind as he drags the tip of the knife right where one of his ribs used to be. He doesn’t even flinch anymore, just breathes a sigh of relief. It’s just a few centimeters, and the blood doesn’t get to leak out much before the cut seals itself up.

Good as new. If he wipes away the blood, no one will be the wiser. There’s a part of him that misses having the small scars as evidence, but this is much less trouble.

He moves the tip of the knife one rib up so that it hovers between two extant ribs. That’s a misnomer, as one of his ribs still sits in his desk. Who knows what Jared did with the other one, though.

He digs the knife in a little deeper, just barely, and drags it the same few centimeters towards his sternum. He only grits his teeth, the sting present but not  _ there _ quite yet. And maybe it’s the whole Beholding thing, but he swears it used to, well, hurt a bit more than this. The wound heals up easily again.

Fine, then. Jon goes up another rung of his rib cage, and starts at the very edge this time. What’s the worst that could happen? He couldn’t even cut off a finger. This is probably no matter.

The knife goes  _ in _ this time, and - yeah,  _ yeah _ \- that does it. He hisses but keeps his grip on the knife tight. His blood spits out around the knife, falling down his torso, and it keeps going. The injury doesn’t close up around the knife, so he holds it there and lets the pain wash over him.

Jon focuses on his breathing, keeping it even, though the breaths themselves are shaky as hell. The blood is still coming, wrapping around his body and falling down to stain the hem of his pants. That’s unfortunate, but he doubts anyone will see it.

He takes the knife out and drops it on the floor. It clatters, an empty metallic sound that echoes around the room.

His body wastes no time closing up. A shame. He rather enjoys the burning afterglow of a cut, but this’ll be less of a hassle tomorrow, when he usually stops enjoying it.

Jon looks down at himself and laughs a little. He looks awful, like he was involved in a murder of some sort. No visible injuries on him, but  _ someone’s _ blood is all over him. He swipes a finger through the blood, rubs small circles against his thumb until the blood is tacky.

It’s not enough.

His head is still cloudy, the pain had only cut (_hah_) through it momentarily.

Jon picks the knife back up and presses it against the soft give of his waist. He moves quickly, stabbing it even deeper than before, and slicing all the way to his navel. The effect is immediate; it has him gasping and dropping the knife. He forgets the fact that his body will take care of it without his input and presses his palm against the opening. Blood presses back against his hand, escaping through his fingers and beneath them.

It  _ hurts _ . Of course, it hurts. That’s what he wanted, right? It hurts, and it keeps hurting, and he’s on the edge of panicking that the Eye finds this too pitiful to intervene when the mouth of his flesh seals beneath his hand, and he’d be lying if he didn’t say it felt damn strange.

The phantom pain lingers much longer, and he keeps his hand there, keeps it until it starts to stick uncomfortably and still then.

His mind is definitely more clear, his body much more his.

In general, reality has a strange salience these days. The world too clear, people too clear. Not that he’s any better at understanding people, but they and their emotional states pop from the background much more than they used to.

Feed on them, the Eye is probably saying. Take their statements and knowledge for yourself.

Jon scoffs, even as he can feel the hunger begin to gnaw deep inside him. It’s worse than any sort of need for food, inhuman in its insistence. But he  _ is _ inhuman, isn’t he, and one day he won’t be able to ignore it.

Today, he’s able to push it away, with the presence of mind he’s earned himself. The evidence of his efforts is in the blood everywhere. Maintenance most likely won’t question it. Not here in the archives. He sits up straight and presses his back against the wall. It’s cool on his skin.

At least he still has a body temperature.


End file.
